Nemesis - Oops

This is a short tale of infidelity that has no end. The premise I was working on when I started writing these Nemesis tales, was the discovery of infidelity, not really its consequences. Okay with some of them I have strayed into that area as well, but not on this case. So if you are looking for everything to be all tied up in a neat little parcel, you'd better give this one a miss.

My thanks go to SH for proofreading this one for me.

Oh yeah, an old mate of mine is into what he describes as "flash stories." I think this one might just fall into that category, but only just!

Nemesis - Oops

It had been a real bastard of a week and was I dying for a decent pint of beer by that Friday evening. So I'd slipped into the pub for swift one, before I made my way home from work.

The "Farmers Arms" was right next door to the office, and I'll happily admit that it wasn't unusual for me to slip in there for a quickie on the way home. Hey, they served a bloody good steak as well, so I'd often grab a meal there whenever my wife Beatrice was away for the evening, on business, or off visiting my in-laws.

I tended to avoid going with her to visit her folks if I could. They never had been members of my fan club. The second best thing they'd ever done for me, was to retire down to the south coast. Of course I'd always figured that the best thing they'd done was to manage to produce Beatrice in the first place. To be honest, probably my only real gripe with the buggers, was the fact that when they moved away, they left Beatrice's brother Bernie behind.

"Long time no see, Doug. Been burning the candles at both ends again?" George (the Farmer's Arms Govner) commented with a grin, as he studied my pint for a couple of seconds -- to make sure it was up to the standard I expected -- before placing it on the bar before me.

"Busy week George. Been dashing around like a bloody blue arsed fly!"

"Yeah I bet. Which one was it, the redhead, or the little blond?" George asked with a wink.

"George, I'm a married man; I don't go putting it about with the young talent in the office, you know that."

"Oh yeah, who's going to believe that, those girls were making very clear that you only have to say the word, at that party they had the other week. Hey, Betty (Georges barmaid) heard that new one, you know the married bird with the big knockers? Well, Betty said she heard her tell those other two that she'd jump your bones for you; all you got to do is give her the nod."

"George, give-over will you; have you ever seen me behave inappropriately with any of the girls from the office?"

"No Doug, I can't say that I have. But then again, there's times I don't see you for a week or so at a time, not even for lunch. Who's to say who you're with, or where you take 'em?"

"Give-over George! I told you, I'm a married man!"

"That don't stop many of my customers sniffing after anything that's going spare ... and some that ain't. Here, you know what, I'm not sure who are the worst, the married blokes or the married birds. Once they got a kid or two behind them, some women get really out of hand."

"Change the bloody subject George, I really didn't come in here tonight for a discussion on modern attitudes to fidelity within marriage."

"Yeah okay." He said with a disbelieving tone to his voice, "I just thought that a guy with your obvious ... magnetism for the opposite sex, would be an expert on the subject." George grinned again.

"Well I ain't! Regretfully I'm a man of high moral character. I will admit that we do have some bloody good scenery working around the office at the present time though." I replied and winked back at George.

All right, I wouldn't go near any of the girls in the office with a ten-foot barge pole, but there was no need for George or anyone else to go through life believing that I was too much of a goody-two-shoes. Christ, he'd probably construe that, as me being a hen-pecked husband or something. There's a fine line that all married men tread, that retains ones social standing with the guys down the pub. You never say that you "do", but then again, you leave all the guys under the impression that you might "do", if the mood took you right. Or might even do "do" anyway, but you keep it strictly to yourself. Sorry girls, it's all to do with stupid male ego.

Now where was I? Oh yeah, I'd just asked George to change the subject.

"Where you been lately anyway, Doug? You ain't been in here since last Friday, we almost came to the point of renting your stool out."

"Been very busy George, new contract. All a little hush-hush I'm afraid, can't say much about it. But if it comes off, I'm up for a bleeding great bonus and no doubt a promotion or two."

"Good on ya, Doug. 'ere by the way, I weren't the only one missing you. Betty was asking if I'd seen you. You know that brother-in-law of yours has been in most nights this week looking for you? He seems in a real panic to find you"

"Bollocks, what does he want?"

"Dunno, he wouldn't say. But he's been dashing in here and out of here, bugging Betty and me about where you were all bloody week nearly. Little shit, didn't even stop to buy a drink."

George never had been too enamoured with my brother-in-law either. But then, Bernie was nearly always short of ready cash, and very rarely could afford to buy a drink even when he did call in the pub.

"Fucking short of cash I suppose, and his bookie is probably after him again. Yeah, I'll bet he's lost all his bleeding readies on the ponies. Stupid arse! He'll be shit scared of going round the house and asking Beatrice for a loan; she'd chew his fucking ears off!"

George and I smiled at each other. He didn't need to say anything; George had heard Beatrice go off at Bernie many times in the past over his gambling.

Actually my brother-in-law Bernie was an all right bloke really, just -- to my mind -- a little too slow on old the up-take and a little too attached to his sister. He was pretty boring to talk too as well, unless the subject was horse racing, or the dogs.

For some reason (probably his gambling) Bernie had never been able to find a woman of his own. Well, they'd never hung around for long anyway! So as you might guess he had never got married and consequently he spent far too much time around our place, for my liking; driving me up the wall. Okay, maybe Bernie had never found a woman he could hang onto, because -- besides his gambling habits -- he was a mummy's boy, and since his mother had moved down the south coast, Beatrice appeared to have become his surrogate mother. Most women don't like playing second fiddle to the man in their life's mother.

Luckily I didn't really see too much of the bugger by then. About a year before, Bernie, after sampling just about every dead-end job within a twenty-mile radius, had taken advantage of the local bus company's driver training scheme and become a bus driver. Whether he enjoyed the job or not, he was roped into a three-year contract and the buggers could give him any shit awful split-shift they fancied.

To be honest I felt sorry for the bugger in a way. Driving service buses all bloody day and dealing with the charming British general public; ain't my idea of having a good time. I work to live and prefer to at least not dislike my daily tasks. I happen to know that Bernie hates trying to stick to schedule in all that bloody traffic.

I suppose I'd been in the "Farmer Arms" for about fifteen or twenty minutes when Bernie came charging in the door. Yeah, I did say charging! He came through the door at the trot and once he'd spotted me he aimed straight for my perch.

Now, I ain't exactly slow. From the moment the door crashed open and I saw Bernie standing there -- breathing heavily as he nearly always did, dragging all that weight of his around -- I'd had it figured that he had a fire up his arse about something.

The problem was -- for some unknown reason -- I kinda doubted that it had anything to do with last night's curry, because he didn't head to the karzi. He'd launched himself across the bar in my general direction.

At that stage of the game Bernie's unnecessary bulk didn't do him any favours. Like those big heavy American cars with their sloppy suspension, Bernie didn't have very much of a chance of changing direction, without a resultant pile up. I'd slid off the stool and taken a couple of paces away from the bar before Bernie ploughed into the vacant seat with an almighty crash.

He then lay on the floor on top of a little pile of firewood that had once been a bar stool, whilst he tried to figure out what had just happened. I think I told you Bernie weren't all that quick on the old up take.

Figuring that now was the opportune moment, I bent down, grabbed Bernie's arm and rolled him over onto his back. Then swinging my leg over his bulk, I settled my arse on his chest, trapping both his arms with my legs and looked down at his crimson face. Bernie, I figured, was well pissed off about something.

"What the fuck is your problem man?" I demanded.

"You, you arsehole! How could you do that to my sister?"

"How could I do what, Bernie? I have no idea what you're are talking about."

"Hey arsehole, I want you out of here before I call the old Bill!" George's voice came from over my shoulder somewhere.

I switched into conciliatory mode, I liked the "Farmers Arms" and whether I liked Bernie or not, sometimes I had to take the bugger out for a drink. You know on his birthday and the like.

"Hold on George, I'm sure this is just a silly misunderstanding. Now Bernie, if I let you up are we going to be able to talk about this like grown men, or are you going to finish up or your arse again?"

"I've calmed down." Bernie assured me.

It took the combined efforts of George and myself to set Bernie on his feet again.

"Right Bernie, now what's eating you?" I asked after ordering him a pint.

"What, are you thick or something? Do you think I don't know what you've been getting up to at lunchtimes? Three fucking time this week!"

Like most people who knew him, I was used to Bernie talking utter nonsense half the time. But sometimes there was an element of logic in what he said, except for when it came to which three-legged horse was going to win the two o'clock at Newmarket. So I figured it was probably my best bet to wind him up and let him run for a while, to find out exactly what he thought he knew.

"Bernie, you speak many words, but as usual you say fuck all! Now start from the beginning and tell us the story slowly, so that even George here can understand."

I can't say what expression that brought to Georges face when he heard say it, because I was looking at Bernie.

"I've been on the twenty-two this week!" Bernie announced triumphantly.

From this statement I gathered that Bernie been driving a number twenty-two bus all week and I related that fact to George. Neither of us could see any significance in the statement.

"And this is supposed to tell us?" I asked.

"Well the number twenty-two goes past the big supermarket on the edge of town doesn't it."

"So you tell us Bernie. But I haven't caught a bus in donkeys years, and I doubt George has either. Perhaps you should be a little more..."

"Oh for fuck sake! It's common knowledge that everyone who's having a dirty little liaison, parks their car in that supermarket car park." Bernie blustered.

I looked at George and he looked back at me, equally bewildered by Bernie's sweeping statement. It must have suddenly struck Bernie how stupid his words had sounded.

"No, I don't mean that everyone who parks their car in the supermarket car park is having an affair. What I mean is, everyone who parks their car over the side near the road are! They park in there and then sneak next door into the motor lodge for a couple of hours of nooky."

"And the significance of that, with regard to the way you entered my bar this evening?" George asked.

"Well Doug's car has been parked right over in the corner of that car park, by the road, three bloody lunchtimes this week. And it was still there on my return journey after I'd stopped for my lunch break; that's over three hours later."

"You don't say." George replied, before I'd had a chance to come up with anything. "And Doug here always claims that he's such an upstanding and moral person. Have you told your sister Beatrice about your suspicions by any chance?"

"There's no suspicion about it George. Except for on a Friday and Saturday that car park's half empty, and it's a bloody long walk to the stores entrance from there. Only a complete idiot would bother carrying their shopping all that far." Bernie replied with a triumphant tone to his voice again. "Anyway it's common knowledge that the philanderers park their cars there so they won't be seen in the hotel car park!"

"He's got a good point there, Doug. You really should be more careful!" George addressed me, but before I could say anything in reply, he turned back to address Bernie again. "But you didn't say Bernie. Have you informed Beatrice about your suspicions yet?"

"Well no. I figured I'd have it out with Doug here and talk him into breaking the affair off." Bernie replied.

"Sorry Bernie, but I'm afraid that it's impossible for me to do that!" I said and then downed the rest of my pint. "George, pass the telephone over here please?"

George complied with my request without comment, and I pushed the unit in from of Bernie.

"Tell you what Bernie. Before I get home, you've got possibly half to three-quarters of an hour to call Beatrice and tell her all of what you've just told us."

"You want me to tell her?" he said, with a shocked expression on his face.

"Of course I do. No relationship can last, when one party is behaving as you imply!" I winked at George. "Oh and Bernie, whilst you are at it. You can tell your sister to get all of her shit out of my bedroom before I get there!

"Oh by the way George. You were asking where I've been all week? Well, I flew out to Germany on Monday morning. Beatrice smacked her car up last Sunday afternoon, so she's been using mine all week, whilst hers is being repaired!"

I then left the Farmer Arms, and went looking for a taxi.

And, of course began wondering. Which one should I chat up first, the redhead or the little blond? Or maybe even the new married bird with the big knockers.

No, it's a thought; but I just don't believe in that kind of behaviour.

Life Goes On

This story is posted on Literotica with the authors consent.